


First or Last

by Desdimonda



Series: To Want, To Need, To Know - A collection of Mystic Messenger drabbles. [6]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: 707 | Choi Luciel's Route, Cute 707 | Choi Luciel, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Happy 707 | Choi Luciel, POV 707 | Choi Luciel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 01:45:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: Just a drabble of Luciel musing over him and MCs blossoming relationship on the night of Day 9 of his route.





	First or Last

I’ve had a lot of firsts. 

Your usual checklist that Yoosung would cry about late night in chat. From kisses in the dark - distractions, desires; to topping the leaderboard on LOLOL; to firsts that I hope Yoosung would never have to bear. The way someone else’s blood feels, spilling on your hands; the way your heartbeat tastes on your tongue as you run for your life, too afraid to look back.

There’s very few memories that I want to stick - there’s little in my life that I ever wanted to.

Until you.

You, were my logic error. 

“What?” you quip, as if I’ve spoke.

You’ve turned as if you heard my thoughts. You’re good at that. I thought my facade still held strong, but around you it cracks and falters, blinks of truth pushing through.

I touch your face, letting my fingers wash over star kissed skin. Your hair is tangled, the ends caught on lips, damp with the memory of our kiss. That, hadn’t been a first, but your laughter behind it had, today. Even on a night before the unknown, clouded with fear, you still manage to shine, to  _ shine.  _

“ _ What?”  _ you say again.

The word is elongated, staggered with another laugh when I don’t reply. I thought I had perfected this - a facade in the face of fear. But for all that time, it was just, me. 

Now, there’s you too.

“Aren’t you afraid?” I ask.

“Well yeah,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing to you, despite your laughter, your eyes, blinking like a galaxy I want to fly away to, to lose myself in forever.

Forever.

Would you let me? Would you find worth within these hands, marred from birth, to let me into your orbit, and hold on? 

You kiss my nose and slide off the bed, mumbling something about a drink. But I have one here. Take it. Take anything I own. Even my body, my soul. It’s  _ yours _ . Possession is transitory to me. A fleeting moment of fulfilment that I clutch onto with two hands, one hand-

-gone.

I claw at the warm void you’ve left on the bed, the bright pink sheets crinkled from your restless legs. You scratched me earlier with your toes. We argued. You put on some socks. I touch the scratch. A mark. A mark that we existed. 

Will we be transitory, too? Just a mark in my timeline; a footnote in my file? 

“You wanna move your hand?” you grumble, the words muffled behind your mug. You prefer drinking from mugs rather than glasses for everything. Even wine. You poured my PhD Pepper into a ‘No1 Daddy’ one earlier and I laughed for five minutes straight. I asked why you had it. ‘ _ Why not?’ _

“A mug tree,” I say, sitting up on my knees.

“Just a mug,” you say, holding it out, a little bemused.

“For when we get a place,” I blurt out. “I wanna make you a mug tree. Or no. A mug  _ wall.  _ How many mugs  _ do  _ you own? You have at least like ten here and this isn’t even your place. _ ” _

Your smile is half hidden behind the mug. But it’s the brightest thing I’ve seen.

“Twenty? Thirty? Oh I have a great one shaped like a cat you’ll love. And one super impractical one of Saturn. The handle is its rings.”

You sit back down on the bed, cross legged, mug in hand and listen to me ramble, stars in your eyes.

“Earlier, you were talking like we weren’t going to make this,” you say, clutching the mug to your chest. “Now you’re talking home improvement?”

I stop for a second, and watch the stars burn.

I pick the sheets at your feet. “You reminded me of something I forgot about.”

“Manners?”

I throw my sock at your head. I never miss.

“I’m trying to be sentimental here.” You always make things easier - it’s like you’ve opened me up and can read, the words spilling louder than my voice ever could. 

“Do go on.” You tease, but a hand finds mine, a small thumb rippling across my knuckles, one by one. 

“I guess I have hope again,” I say, staring at our hands, connected, fingers slipping side by side. “I forgot what it looked like,” I look up, “until I saw you.”

You kiss me, my back hitting the bed. It quells my words, my breath - it binds my will, to  _ you.  _

I’ve had a lot of firsts, but will tonight be my last?


End file.
